The Ink of Eternity: A Psalm of the Bride

I was sitting in Barnes & Noble with a cold brew in hand, searching for words to write. Then it struck me — we are all writing, even when we are not. Every breath is our act of leaving a mark on creation, much like a poet’s pen upon the page. This poem was born from that meditation.

There are so many tales to tell.

About Life, love, loss,

And even Joy,

Savored,

Sufficient.

Who tells the tale…

This is our texture, our voice,

Where nuance joins,

Lived experience,

And wisdom’s patience.

Are we not all tellers of tales?

Whether whispered or spoken,

Sung, or story-danced in muse,

Told intimately,

As lovers’ lies shared as life’s fiction?

Are we not all readers?

Witnesses to stories with faces —

Tales yet to be told,

Or heard,

Or held.

If we are writers, one and all,

Crafting sagas with life’s utensils,

Prepackaged to deliver our soliloquy,

Should we not behave even more

Compassionate in love, ever so carefully?

If we are readers,

Then should we not consider

The manuscripts that walk around us,

Teaching us lessons, if we look,

About our own authorship?

Finally, if our life is our writing,

Should we not consider the ink?

The fountain for the pen?

The glowing Holy Spirit,

The perfect radiance that gives our manuscript meaning?

When this flesh is gone,

My words long left,

My pages dust,

The Life remains.

The Ink gives it permanence.

Amen, Father,

Use this instrument as vessel.

Pour Your Presence and allow

This dust to sing,

Eternally.

As always, this is Dust —

For You,

To You,

From Him,

In me.

We are all part of the story. Pass this along to another storyteller who could use encouragement